I’ve spent the day crying on and off about Tina’s dog, Ndugu.

Sane people would be totally give me side-eye for being broken up about another person’s dog. More empathic people would say I’m so sad because his passing is so close to my dad’s death and it is mingling with the grief that is already there. Or, they might say I’m sad because Tina is obviously hurting, and we hurt when people we love hurt. There is some truth in all of that, but it is only a tiny part of my sadness. Only people who knew Ndugu get it.

There are some creatures (sometimes maybe even humans) who are just beings of joy. We all have met someone who is always smiling, unfailingly kind, and really cares about others. Those are the people version of Ndugu, but Ndugu was better at it. Ndugu had the kindest, purest, most loving soul of anyone (?) I’ve ever met.

Yes, I know most dogs are creatures of love, especially if they are in loving families. Tina definitely provided him a home of love. Aside from my father, I know of few better dog people than Tina and her husband. Ndugu was more than that though. He was more than just happy or loving; he cared about his people. He worried. I know this because I was often at the receiving end of his worried care. When I would spend the night, I slept late. Ndugu always clearly thought this meant something was wrong with me, and he would wake me up to make sure I was still alive then run off to do important Ndugu stuff. He could always tell if I was having a hard time emotionally, and he would do little things to take care of me, like staying up with me instead of going to bed with his parents. I can’t tell you how many nights I spent talking to him and finding comfort in his little old man face.

Ndugu knew a lot of my secrets, fears, and hurts. He cared for them and for me. A lot of humans have a hard time with that.

That old man smile

The world is better for having had him in it. I think the people who loved him are better for having been in his life. And, while the platitude “they’ll never be truly gone if you keep them in your heart” drives me up a wall now, he will be remembered.

The crazy, emo, little shit

Normally, I try to come up with a little more creative title than today’s, but it’s the truth. I miss him. I will never smooth back the four hairs on his bald spot, kiss his forehead, and tell him ‘I love you, Old Man.’

You bet your ass I was the only one who got away with calling him that, too.

I’m lucky. I had him as a father. I have him as a father? I don’t know.

I can tell you this, I feel more loved and less alone than ever have. I promise y’all I’ll never get around to sending out little pretty thank you cards. I’ll get distracted by shiny things, as is my nature. But, everyone who showed up, brought over food, or has given a piece of yourself with sympathy has made a difference. I was terrified before he died, I would find myself in a shaky world with a far smaller safety net. My world is steady, and my net is strong.

More than anything, though, thank you everyone who has helped me take care of my mom. This morning I got to shake my Viking awake and ask him to go to Chickasha to get a new Netflix machine (our old one was a victim of the tigernado) and get all the meats for us and mom from Jake’s Rib. I was feeling sad and empty, and I wanted to do something with my partner to make me less sad and empty. He’s been there in every way I’ve needed. I lost my daddy, but my mom lost her mate. The idea she doesn’t have anyone to shake awake when she is feeling sad crushes my heart. She is strong, and she will survive.

My sister made these videos for Dad’s memorial. I want to share them with you.

This is the first one.

Here is the one we closed the memorial with. It felt right to leave with a hopeful song.

They fill me with sadness and joy at the same time. They are so perfectly my father.

My father died Sunday, June 7th.

He was in a hospice care center, and for the rest of my life I will be a big advocate of hospice. I will also fight to make the topic of death no longer taboo. My family has always very openly talked about death, and it really helped when the hard decisions came. There were so many.

He spent his last few days with his family. He saved his real conscious times for my mother. He died in his sleep with my mother sleeping in the chair right beside him. I believe it was a good death.

I feel like I should be a lot more devastated than I am I lost my daddy. The first man I ever loved, and my whole life’s hero. Things have been so busy though, and there have been so many blessings wrapped up in his death.

I’m not saying I haven’t cried. I was looking through a bag of stuff and found his glasses. I held his glasses and wept. They were a part of his face as something like his nose. While he was in the hospital, he would wake up and immediately need them on. I must have gotten up a thousand times to help him put them on. Now, they are sitting on my desk. One day, I put them in a shadow box.

I just feel him everywhere, and I see so many good things. I feel closer to my sister than I ever have. I’ve always considered her impressive, but watching her care for our parents and want everything just right for everyone, including me, has shown me how truly deep and loving her soul is. We might go back to be being kind of cold after all is said and done, but I’m going to make an effort to see that we don’t. She is a truly incredible person.

I spent tonight hanging out with my mother’s sisters and my cousin who is a new momma to a handsome boy. Tonight, because my heart was so raw, I was able to be with them without my normal insecurities and fears, and I felt so much love from these amazing women.

Everywhere I turn I keep finding love and kindness. I feel Dad’s hand in it.

The Viking, of course, has been amazing. He’s been my rock.

He was asleep when I got home. Truth is, I should be asleep. I’ve had very little sleep since it happened, and it is starting to wear on me. My feet are like puff loaves of bread dough. I just felt the need to write. I was sitting in front of Eatsy’s cage giving her treats and loving on her. I buy her love with yogurt treats. I was also listening to the dulcimer tones of the Viking snoring. Eatsy kept being demanding and adorable until I just started talking to her about everything.

I’m scared. I’m scared about tomorrow. We’re having a memorial service. I’m getting up to speak. That right there would be enough with someone of my brand of crazy terrified out of my wits. I’m afraid tomorrow will make it real, like somehow the truth of the situation will finally hit me and I will end up in a pull of snot and tears. I have no outline for what I’m going to say, but I have a good idea of what I’m going to say. I’m oddly at peace with that.

What I’m really terrified of, what really is breaking my heart, is the possibility after tomorrow people will start to move on and he’ll be forgotten. I don’t want my dad to fade like a preserved painting. Like somehow after tomorrow I’m supposed to put down my pain and memories and move forward. I’m afraid he will be talked about less and less and one day he will truly fade from this earth. I told Eatsy this. She pressed her face into my so I’d knows she understands.

I should get to sleep now. Tomorrow I need to roll my hair and put on make-up to pretend to the world I’m a grown up. At least Eatsy gets it.

I read this article Saturday in which the writer describes the reasons she broke up with “perfect” guys like he didn’t like books or movies. I don’t judge her for it. I don’t believe in staying with anyone. If they aren’t your big love, and you are done for whatever reason, then by all means, take off. Then she wrote removing books or movies removes half of what you can talk about throughout your lives. Love, real love, doesn’t look like that. Lust and infatuation certainly can benefit from having things in common. Real love means having life goals and values in common.

I’ve also read woman writing about how they refuse to date men who are not their physical type no matter how intellectually and emotionally compatible they are. If you are sport dating (dating purely for fun and sex with no intentions of finding a mate), I get this. I never sport dated because I knew I wasn’t emotionally built for it. I also don’t think there is anything wrong with it. Some people don’t want a mate in their lives yet or ever, and sex is fun and healthy. But, if you are looking for real love, hair color matters less than you would think.

I’ve seen real love in my life. It looks nothing like books and movies tell us what it looks like.

Real love looks like spending a week sleeping in a hospital recliner so you can be there in the morning when the doctors come in to tell about your mate’s condition and praying it is good news.

It is begging, threatening, nagging, anything you can to get your mate to eat so they can get better.

It’s spending as much time as possible with the mate you’ve been with for over half your life even though sometimes weakness and confusion makes them almost unbearably cranky because you know they need you.

Real love is when you do everything you can for your mate even when you are exhausted and your body is hurting.

Real love is feeding bites of forbidden desserts on the porch of a nursing home during a birthday picnic with your family (including the dog.)

Real love is agonizing over decisions on whether or not to continue with a medical treatment which might extend life and choosing what you think your partner would want even if it might shorten your time with them.

Real love is praying your loved one has a moment of clarity so they know you were there, they aren’t alone, and you love them.

In these moments, book you’ve read or movies you’ve seen mean nothing. The person’s politics couldn’t be more superfluous. Their height, hair color, or build only matter because you are trying to remember everything about them, or you are trying to think back to better, healthier times. All that matters is what you’ve shared, what you’ve built, and the love you can hang on to after they are gone. Never settle for anything less,  but make sure you are looking for the right thing.

Friday night, I went up to the hospital to sit with Dad and give Mom a break. I brought up the Viking’s voice recorder.  Before I could make it up to the hospital room, I ended up in a bathroom stall taking deep breaths and texting the Viking for encouragement. I know it sounds pathetic, but if you’ve been there, you know.

The Viking sent me this picture of the teapot and cozy we ordered and got in the mail to cheer me up:

I’m a tea cozy type of person now.

I finally made it up to the room, sent my mom off to rest, and sat quietly with Dad.

He hadn’t eaten much in six days and hadn’t been awake or alert much in several days. I found a clear moment and asked him if he minded if I recorded him talking, especially about how much he loves my mom. He looked at me for a few seconds, then he asked in a quiet voice, “Are you expecting me to pass soon?”

“Dad, you haven’t eaten in six days,” was all I could bring myself to answer. He got quiet. I was sure he had fallen asleep. About ten minutes passed before he turned off the television and turned to me.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I’ve decided I’m not going to pass tonight or anytime soon.”

“Okay, good, then you have to eat.” That night he let me help him eat a few bites of dinner. Saturday morning, he woke up and ate almost all of his breakfast. It wore him out so bad he had to take a nap.

Later in the afternoon:

“I’m trying to clear my head so we can have one of our talks. I miss our talks,” he told me when he woke up.

“I miss our talks, too, Dad.”

That night I got several minutes of recording. We talked. He ate dinner. He slept. Sunday morning, he woke up and ate even more. He got help getting out of bed and into the hospital recliner. He bitched about everything. I left Sunday afternoon. I haven’t been back since. I’ve, as per usual, gotten some bug. The Viking gave it to me, and it has some stomach nastiness with it, so I’ve decided not to bring it up to a hospital. Monday, I’m going to go see him again. I won’t have stop in the bathroom to calm myself.

Because he decided to eat.

So, the shit is hitting the fan in my life, again. I wasn’t going to write about it, but like all of my best ideas, I told Tina and she pointed out to me that I was right and stupid for not doing it before.

I hate that it feels like I only blog when things are bad. Let’s be honest though, I’m not an interesting enough person to keep writing ‘the Viking makes me incredibly happy, I’m struggling with my mental health issues, and I love my parents but they are driving me a bit nuts’ over and over again without boring even myself. Also, I was busy with #YesAllDaughters. It was an amazing, empowering time working with amazing empowering women.

Interesting mental health side note: there are now genetic tests to see how your body will react to medications, and my shrink had one done for me. It turns out my body was not absorbing my main anti-depressant, and now we are trying new medication more suited to my genetics. I’m pretty gobsmacked that this is even a thing. I’ve been on the new medication for almost a month now. I really can’t gauge how it is working though because…. you guessed it, shit is all kinds of fucked up right now.

The past two/three years have been really hard on my dad health wise. The last six months have been even worse. Right now, he is in the hospital and has been there for two weeks. It has been rough. My dad is a strong, stubborn man. He is a fighter. It means he lives through a lot of things which normally kill other people. It also means my mom, my sister, and I have seen him very near death many times, felt the terror, and then reconciled with the fact he was okay afterwards.

One would think this would mean it would induce less intense reactions each time, or we would become numb to it.

No. Not even a little bit.

We have accepted the fact he is not long for this earth. We have had the quality of life discussions. We have talked and planned about what would happen after. It is all helpful. Being able to talk to each other openly and having an idea of how we are going to handle life after helps the fear of how we will get along without him. But, the actual nitty-gritty of watching him go through this still fucking sucks. It is still traumatic as hell. Sometimes it hurts so bad you can barely breath.

Some days are okay. Today is an okay day. I’m being lazy. I have a ton of shit I HAVE to do. I want to do several nice things for my mom since she is coming home for the night tomorrow night. If it were just things for the Viking house, I would blow it off, but this is for Mom. She has been strong, brave, loyal, loving, and simply amazing. I want her to come home to a house with clean floors and possibly scones. I want her to have something nice. It’s almost 5pm and I haven’t moved to do any of it. I’m actively making myself okay with it. It doesn’t matter if this stuff is done at 6pm or midnight. Self care says taking the time to drink tea and write this is okay. Since this is an okay day for me, I’m kind of enjoying it.

Yesterday, on the other hand, was not an okay day. I had just as many troubles getting around and doing stuff, but it was for a different reason. I HAD to go to the hospital to bring my mom things. I was trying to be good. I was trying to be strong. It took me 15 minutes to put on pants because I started ugly crying three times during the process. I’ve never been particularly fond of pants, but normally I can successfully put them on without snot-faced crying. I snot-faced cried in the shower, while I drank my tea, and during practically every other activity I did yesterday until I got to the hospital. I only cried a little once and managed to make my sister feel bad by accident, which makes me feel like a douche.

Today, I find the pants thing funny. I’m also trying to be okay with the insane crying. I’m telling myself by allowing myself those bad days and moments the emotions can get out and not blindside me later when all the other emotions are trying to come out in a gross flood of tears and snot. (When I say ugly cry, I mean UGLY cry with the red face and runny nose and the weird hiccup-y choking sounds.) I still feel like a douche for making my sister feel bad.

Right now, I’m hoping dialysis can clear his body of enough toxins that he can become more lucid. I have a voice recorder in the room with him. My greatest wish right now is to catch him lucid enough to record him talking about how much he loves mom and his grand babies. If I can get some extra stories on tape, I would love it, but the love note to Mom is the very most important thing. I don’t want to forget my dad’s voice. I remember his stories. I have a few pictures of him, but I need to have his voice. I should have done this sooner, but I’m refusing to beat myself up over what I should have done. It’s pretty damn pointless. Please, all the Powers that Be, let me get his voice on recorder.

I’m out of tea and those floors won’t mop themselves. (Why don’t we have self mopping floors yet, damn it?) and I really want to make those scones. I just wish I didn’t have to put on pants.